Why Sherlock? after Reichenbach Fall
by ingriddd151997
Summary: This is a Story I am writing in honor of Reichenbach Fall, it is in Johns point of view after Sherlocks suicide and trying to deal with it along with trying to figure out why he killed himself.


**Authors notes: Well, I wanted to write a story in honor of Reichenbach Fall, which aired last night. This is the first chapter in John Watsons POV. I am not sure where I am taking this but I will be continuing. I apologize if I made any errors, feedback would be very much appreciated. I do hope you enjoy this **

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><p>I wasn't sure how I felt in that moment.<br>Though he said it was a lie, I could not bring myself to believe him.  
>Never would I believe what he said, because it was real, even if he said it wasn't it was, there are certain things that you cannot lie about, this is one of them.<br>Sherlock is many things, he's done many things but never, never would he lie to me, not about all we've shared.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. That bastard, he tricked me just so I could leave, so he could face this alone even though he did not have to. I got back but he'd already had his mind set on it, idiot you're an idiot Sherlock a goddamn idiot. Hearing his voice so broken, so distraught anyone would've believed him but no not me I've been by his side for far to long, I suppose I can now tell when someone's lying.

On that day I watched my best friend commit suicide, reason unknown. It's been two months, I haven't returned to the flat I can't everything there emanates his presence I can't go back but I have to, I have to go in order to figure out why, why Sherlock killed himself.  
>Returning to 221B Baker Street felt as if I was in between reality and a dream. The dream being that I would walk through that door, greet and go up to see Sherlock trying to solve his latest case. The reality being that I would walk through that door great and have the flat be empty, no Sherlock because he was buried 6 feet under. He stood there outside the familiar door for a moment before walking in. He did not bother with talking to , there was nothing to say. He paused outside the door his hand on the knob, without further delay he entered the flat.<br>Everything was as we had left it, it seemed as if Sherlock was never dead as if he was just out and would soon return. As I stood there I could almost feel Sherlocks pacing, I could practically hear the drumming of his fingers against his knee as he made a deduction, I could hear him, I could hear him muttering to himself reviewing the facts, asking me to brew some tea, asking for my opinion but shooting it down saying it was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard. As I walked through the flat I felt a pang in my chest, it was almost too hard to bare but I would manage I had to manage I will not rest until I figure this out. But staying there, was something I could not do, not yet. Almost as promptly as I walked in I walked out, something's take time, this was one of them. I walked out into the brisk atmosphere and hailed a cab, there was someone I had to see.  
>I was a regular visitor at the Cemetery these days, I'd come here just because it made me feel closer to him, though Sherlock was an inconsiderate asshole he was also my best friend, and as much as I hated to admit, I missed him terribly. I walked to his grave and slumped down beside it resting my head against the cold marble tombstone "What the hell was your reason for doing it Sherlock? Selfish bastard, people need you, you know. Think of and Molly. And of me, everything went back to being boring with you there was never a dull moment but now it's only dull moments. Please Sherlock for me, don't be dead." Every day I would come visit him, I'd ask why, I'd insult him and I'd ask him to come back. But he never came back, after a while I stopped visiting him and went back to living a dull life.<br>_-_

_It is 6 months after your death Sherlock, damn time sure does pass quickly. I don't even know why I even bother with this stupid blog anymore, nothing interesting ever happens but I can't help but feel as if this is what I have to do. Not a day passes when I don't think of you. But its rather hard not to, I moved back into the flat, sorry to say but I threw out the head, and the hand and all the other body parts you had in the fridge, I hope you don't mind. I saw Anderson while walking, the first thing I heard was you insulting him, it probably isn't healthy is it? To hear your voice, writing a blog to the deceased probably isn't healthy either, but it make me feel slightly better. I'm still trying to piece this puzzle together, I owe you that much Sherlock, in fact I owe you much more but there's not much I can do now, is there. Until next time, John Watson._

_-  
><em>With that I disabled comments, and posted my first blog in six months and shut my laptop off. "Goodnight Sherlock" I said to no one before turning off the living room lamp, going to my room to retire for the night.


End file.
